


Only You Can Find Me

by tyrsdayschild



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrsdayschild/pseuds/tyrsdayschild
Summary: **Updates Every Other Week**When Logan agreed to help The Children of the Atom produce their next album, he didn’t realize he would lose the safe life he’d eked out for himself- couldn’t imagine the chaos that would swallow the band whole- and he certainly never thought he’d fall in love.orAn “everything is the same but they’re in a rock band” non-powered Scogan AU
Relationships: Jean Grey/Logan (X-Men), Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers, Other incidental canonical pairings, Scogan Endgame
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12





	1. The Angels - Part One

It was a Friday night, and the shitty little three piece band was hammering out covers of Hank Williams songs, but it was live music and the beer was cold, so Logan wasn’t complaining. He leaned against the bar, taking a pull from the longnecked bottle, and flinched as someone laid a hand on his back.

“Fuckin’ watch it-!” he started in, but cut himself short when he saw it was just Ororo.

“Logan, how are you?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, “You in the mood for some shit tier country western?”

“I’m in the mood for you to have a phone you actually answer,” she said, hopping onto the stool next to him, “I don’t enjoy having to run you down.”

“Been busy,” Logan said, thinking reluctantly it was probably time to put the handset back on the hook, and damn the noise when he slept in.

“I’d hoped you might be looking for work,” Ororo said. Truthfully, Logan was always looking for work, whether as a session musician or in the sound booth. He turned towards her properly, inclining his head. Fortunately, ‘Ro got a kick out of him, so didn’t call him on his attitude. “My friend Jean and her band are looking to record soon, and they’re breaking from their usual team. I told her about your work, and they’re keen to work with you.”

“Have I heard any of their work?” Logan asked. He and Ororo went to shows pretty regularly, and he would’ve remembered seeing a friend of hers.

“They’re quite popular,” Ororo said, “The Children of the Atom?”

“Oh fuck me,” Logan swore, “What the hell made you think ‘bubblegum pop’ and me in the same damn sentence?”

“I adore Jeannie, and she needs a solid producer,” Ororo said, steel in her voice warning him from speaking too harshly. “You’re quite lucky you’re the best with multitrack manipulation I could think of, or I certainly wouldn’t leave you unsupervised around a sweet girl like her. And they’re all fine instrumentalists, think what you will of their genre.”

“’Ro, I’m sure your girlfriend is talented as hell, but I’d be certain she was in some hippy-dippy flowerchild cult if they weren’t such blatant sell-outs,” Logan said frankly.

“You’re not the only producer I know,” Ororo said, “But they’re rehearsing tomorrow at Village, and they start recording next Monday. I’d appreciate if you’d do me the courtesy of meeting them tomorrow before shooting down the opportunity out of hand.”

“Hey, I ain’t ungrateful,” Logan said, “I’m just being realistic about our ability to vibe. I’m not sure an ol’ cur like me is what pretty young things want around when they’re grooving.”

Ororo rolled her eyes. “They’re professionals, and they’ve been playing full-time, non-stop, for almost ten years now. Twelve albums, over a thousand concerts. They’re old hands in all but age.”

Logan was reluctantly impressed. Sure, he’d been hearing snatches of their tunes off the radio since the early 60s, and he’d certainly seen the screaming hoards outside Dodger Stadium when they came through for a couple different shows, but he hadn’t put together just how much work they were doing. He wasn’t one to be impressed by four-chord pop music, but there was something to be said for sheer volume, and he truthfully hadn’t listened closely to give anything but the most cursory assessment of their quality.

“They’re a lot higher profile than my usual clients,” he said, reluctantly. Part of him was intrigued, wanting to work with real professionals than the scrappy little garage bands he helped throw demos together, or the old coulda-beens still trying to make it- but there were reasons he kept his head below water.

“McCarthy has been dead for over a decade,” Ororo said, lifting her glass in a mock toast, “And no one really cares about blacklists anymore.”

There were things worse than blacklists, Logan thought, but she raised a good point. This was probably the best chance to stick his neck out Logan was going to get- and if it worked out…

“Alright, I’ll go meet your girl and her boys,” he said. “I’ll see if we can work together, connect ‘em up with someone else if the fit ain’t right, make sure they’re taken care of. Any particular reason they split with their old team?”

“They didn’t want to record in New York,” she said, “Given everything.”

It took a second, but the penny dropped.

“Oh fuck,” Logan said. “They’re the band who’s producer got murdered.”

“Charles Xavier was much more than just their manager and producer,” Ororo said, “But yes- and don’t give me that look Logan! Since when have you been one to shy away from danger?”

‘Ro had his number, fair enough, and Logan was intrigued enough to want a closer look at the group if nothing else. The next day, he made the trek out to West LA. There were a small group of girls near the door of Village Studios, giggling to each other, but he pulled down the brim of his hat and they paid him little notice, though they craned their necks to look through the door as he entered. His name had been added on at the front desk, and he made his way back Studio A. He saw the band, and a young woman who must be Ororo’s Jean in the center of the crowd, through the glass and opened the door into the recording room.

Jean was- there was no other word for it- breathtaking. She was gorgeous, and in that timeless way that could only be born with and grown into. Huge green eyes, long waves of red hair spilling messily past her shoulders, held off her face by a pair of studio headphones. Behind her were her four bandmates- and shit, yeah, he vaguely remembered them off an album cover, and they were just as motley a crew as he remembered. They’d always been smiling on the covers though, idyllic and flowery- now they were tense and on edge, with pleasant expressions that didn’t reach their eyes. It had been less than a month since Xavier died- Logan remembered watching Captain Randolph die, the fear and grief he’d felt as a kid, and squelched the wave of empathy he felt for them. He was here to be their producer, not offer condolences.

Jean was deep in conversation with a blond man, almost as beautiful as her and dressed twice as provocatively, when she saw Logan approaching in her peripheral vision and turned towards him, her face lighting up.

“Fellas, the savior of the hour is here!” she exclaimed with a laugh, pulling off her headphones and shaking her hair free. Striding up to him, she held out her hand boldly, even boyishly. “Jean Grey,” she said, “You’re Ororo’s friend?”

“Call me Logan,” he said, gripping her hand- Christ, it was so soft- and shaking it firmly. He let his fingers trail over hers as they separated, feeling a heat in his stomach stir.

“You come very highly recommended,” she said, “’Ro said you’ve got an ear like no other, that you’re the best producer she’s worked with.”

“I ain’t done too much pop,” he warned, “But I know how to get the best from instruments, and how to get that best on tape.”

“That’s exactly what we need,” Jean said, nodding determinedly, her lips forming a pouty bow. “The boys are good on their instruments, but we really need to redefine our sound with this next album.” Logan nodded, a little distractedly, letting his eyes slide over to her bandmates.

Sitting on an amp behind Jean was a rangy looking young man- long legged and skinny, with spidery fingers and gangly limbs. He had the sort of cheek bones that might have been striking, if they weren’t obscured by an oversized pair of red tinted lens.

“Sun too bright for ya, slim?” Logan asked, jerking his chin in the skinny man’s general direction. The other man made a face like he’d bit a lemon, and looked down at his bass guitar, fiddling with the tuning pegs.

“It’s to prevent migraines,” the burly guitar player beside him said, reaching out to shake his hand. Shit, if the skinny man made Logan feel short, this brick shithouse just made him feel _small_. He had to be at least six foot eight, with broad shoulders, thick thighs, and a palm that could’ve wrapped around Logan’s whole forearm twice. He had strong, leonine features, exaggerated by a wild shag haircut that swirled around his head like a mane and the incongruently delicate wire frame specs perched on his nose. “You’ll have to forgive our Scott,” the man said, “He’s terribly shy around strangers.”

“I just don’t have anything to say to that,” the skinny man, Scott, mumbled. Scott Summers, Logan mentally filled in, the headlines clicking in- he’d been the one to be with Xavier when he was shot.

“There’s no shame in headaches, you know,” the big fucker said. “My name is Hank McCoy. Is Logan your first or last name?”

“Just Logan,” he repeated, firmly. He didn’t break eye contact- wasn’t about to show any intimidation. McCoy seemed to pick up on the subtle challenge and chuckled- bastard!- shaking his head a little and taking a step back towards Summers.

“Delightful,” McCoy said, “Would that we could all so easily shed the trappings of Western patriarchy! To truly be self-made men, sure in our own chosen identities. Just Logan- wonderful!”

“I’m Bobby Drake!” the baby-faced drummer called, punctuating his introduction with a neat little drum roll, crashing on the cymbals at the end. “Hope you’re ready for four weeks of hell!”

“The fuck?” Logan said.

“It’s how long we’ve booked the studio for,” the gorgeous blond said. “I’m Warren Worthington, lead guitar. Hank is rhythm, Scott is bass and whatever the hell else we need, and Jean is lovely.”

“How many songs have y’all got ready?” Logan asked.

“Well, the Professor and Scott had just finished the demo tape for this album when- when he was- anyway. We’ve spent about- since the funeral last week, we’ve uh- we’ve been fleshing them out, just going to do a run through today, rest up tomorrow, and dive in on Monday, assuming you’re able to run the control room for us,” Jean filled in. Her bright smile had dimmed and grown shallow, and she blinked her eyes quickly, as if to banish tears.

“It’s ten tracks,” Summers mumbled, “Approximately thirty-eight minutes.”

“Speak up, bub,” Logan said.

“It’s ten-“

“I heard you,” Logan interrupted. Drake looked awkward, but the two guitarists looked amused. Scott made no expression at all, as far as Logan could tell. Oh, he was going to be a tough nut, huh, Logan thought. “Well, lemme clear out of your way- need me for anything in particular?”

“We’re planning to record this more or less live, with just a bit of overdubbing for clapping, doubling vocal tracks- that sort of thing,” Jean spoke up. “We’ll tell you more as we go?”

“Sounds good,” Logan said, and ambled back into the control room. He spun the chair around and swung his leg over the seat, crossing his arms to rest across the back. The Children of the Atom took their spots, and Logan was a little surprised when it was Summers who counted them off- “One two three four, one-“

They launched into the song, a groovy little up-tempo piece. Drake was a hoot, staring intently at Scott, looking almost panicked, face frozen and biting his tongue as he got through what sounded like a tricky timing change at the end of the verse, from four-four to three-four and back again when he finally cut loose, bobbing his head excitedly to the beat. It was a guitar driven number, Worthington and McCoy playing the melody in tandem, but while McCoy was playing straightforward chords, Worthington was clearly riffing and adding little flourishes, especially on the middle eight, which had no words, letting his guitar playing shine. And there in the back was Summers, playing counter-melody on his bass, deep “in the pocket” with Drake. At least he had the chops to back up his attitude, Logan thought.

Jean though- yeah, she was a star.

“You and I, together alone,” she sang, voice yearning and sweet, “Do you think we could go back home?” Logan had heard her warm, expressive alto over the AM radio before, but in person- goddamn, but a man could fall in love with that voice!

Jean finished her part, humming along for the last four bars as the guitars wound the song down, beaming.

“Not bad at all!” she said.

“Don’t even start!” Worthington snapped, and Logan was taken aback- even after he tracked Worthington’s accusing finger pointing to Summers.

“I haven’t started,” Summers said.

“Oh, you’ve started thinking! I’m not a robot Scott, I’m going to play it how I’m going to play it-“

“I didn’t say anything.”

“-and it’s not going to be exactly as it is in your head and you just have to deal-“

“I didn’t say anything.”

“-and don’t even start talking about _cohesive sound_ -“

“-if you’re unhappy with your performance, don’t blame me-“

“Boys!” Jean shouted, “I swear, if you don’t bite your tongues!”

“Truly,” McCoy said, “Save till we’re recording at the very least.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Summers repeated, a-fucking-gain.

“We _could_ all tell you were thinking, though,” Drake piped up. Summers shot him a look, and Drake raised his sticks as if to shield himself.

So, they were good, Logan thought- but there were going to be a lot of takes. He wasn’t sure if Summers was the perfectionist of the bunch, or Worthington, but either way- maybe it would be better to record the instrument tracks separately, to avoid exhausting everyone with repeated takes. But that would go against the live recorded sound Jean had asked for.

It was a conundrum he pondered as the band pulled themselves together and went into a their next number. Jean sang the dream like lyrics smoothly, “from end to end and back again” as the lyrics went. It was a perfectly normal four-four for most of it, but an extra beat snuck in on the bar just before the chorus, which ended with a weird half-bar. Logan cringed as Drake fell out of time just before the second chorus and the song crashed to a halt.

“How many of your songs have these time changes?” he asked, trying to hide his irritation.

“It’s the only way to make the words work,” Summers said, looking down at his hands.

“So change the words,” Logan said, “The hell sort of bassackwards way is that to write a song?”

There was an awkward pause.

“We can’t change the lyrics,” Jean said, “The were written by the Professor.”

Logan thought about pointing out the man was dead, so really couldn’t object, but that was tasteless, and would upset her.

“It’s ok,” Drake said, “I’m getting it!”

“C’mon, let’s count the song,” Summers said quietly, jerking his head towards the drum kit. McCoy looked at the rest of them, giving a put-upon smile. He wasn’t exactly one to talk though- it was clear the chord progression was difficult for his large fingers, though he was gamely playing along with Summer’s rhythmic counting. “You can do it Bobby,” Summers urged, “Four-on-the-floor it.”

“Scotty, I can’t four-on-the-floor when there aren’t four beats per measure.”

“Four-on-the- Scott! This isn’t a dance track!” Worthington objected.

“It’ll be easier to track the tempo and keep count,” Summers said, “Which can really only help everyone, especially during the jam at the end.”

“Okay Scott, break up the rhythm section pow-wow,” Jean said, seeming to head off another squabble between the bassist and the lead guitar, “Let’s take it from the top!”

Everyone resumed their places and Summers counted them off again. He continued to mouth the count to Drake throughout the song, and his little pep talk was at least effective, since the drummer didn’t fall off tempo again as the song built to a crescendo and ended with a full on funk breakdown, Jean repeating the chorus almost gospel-like over it. Logan found himself tapping his foot along to the music, and grinned a little- he’d come up on country and western, himself, but he could get into this.

Rehearsal continued another two and a half hours which, if not entirely productive, were at least not boring. The songs were an interesting mix- from a fifties-rock “train song” to hard rock, a ballad, even one of the sugar-sweet love songs that had made them famous at the start of the decade. It wasn’t going to be the most cohesive album in the world, Logan thought, but given Jean’s stated aim to “redefine their sound”, it would probably do the job.

The tension Logan had walked into shifted and flowed with the songs. When they were lost in a groove, it seemed to disappear, leaving behind a well-oiled machine, the music flowing almost effortlessly. In the lulls though- there were constant little digs and bitching, or tears welling up as some lyric or sound called up memories. The one constant was Summers, who was being a total drag- no, Logan thought- a _drive_. He was stoic, playing with an almost mechanical precision, quick to offer a brief hand on the shoulder when one of his bandmates became emotional, but almost immediately counting them off again, pushing them through the set list with as few pauses as possible.

The band dynamics were interesting- in Logan’s experience, the lead guitar was usually the strongest personality in the band, which usually translated into a leadership role. Worthington was certainly outspoken, and he was close with Jean, the frontwoman. They were a good combo, Logan thought, and Worthington harmonized well with her on most of the songs. He wondered if they were a couple, the intimacy they brought to the love songs was so palpable.

But, as they got about halfway through the list of songs they had prepared, the band was stuck on a ballad- they had done about three takes, changing it from D to C, speeding up the tempo, and now were debating whether or not to shift it down to the minor key, Worthington playing around with the riffs, demonstrating what he was thinking. Jean started to give feedback, but Logan tracked her eyes- she was looking at Worthington, but she kept glancing back at Summers. Even his stoicism was strained, frustration evident in the tense line of his mouth, but he responded to her glances with small hand gestures. Totally inscrutable to Logan, but Jean seemed to know exactly what he was trying to communicate, and was translating that into feedback for Worthington.

It was impossible not to notice- no one directly asked Summers for guidance, but he was the center of the room. Drake’s eyes were fixed on him near constantly when they were playing, letting his bass set the tempo, McCoy played in time with him, usually letting Summers ground his chords, and Jean constantly checked back in with him, shooting him a smile whenever things went well and nodding in response to whatever meaning she read in the tilt of his head or quirk of his mouth. Shit, even Worthington was hypersensitive to any perceived response from Scott, though he usually read it as critical.

It was irritating and inexplicable how this hangdog wallflower _bassist_ , with all the charisma of drying paint, had managed to become the leader of one of the most popular rock and roll bands in the world. They finally broke for the day when three girls showed up- Vera, Zelda, and Candy- with takeout Chinese and a little baggie of decent dope. Drake made a beeline for Zelda, giggling like a little kid as he scooped her up in a big hug.

“How’s it going, Bobby Dee?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to press a kiss to his chin.

“Oh-Kay Zee-Kay!” he laughed, and kissed the crown of her head, “This album is going to be the best yet- we’re kings of the world!”

“Don’t you mean kings and queen?” Vera asked, arching an eyebrow. McCoy had set his guitar down in its stand, going over towards her.

“I’m a female king,” Jean said.

“Scotty can be the queen,” Worthington said archly. Scott made a sour face as laughter burst out in the room.

“Oh c’mon Angel, you’re already the good looking one, leave the funny for me,” Drake said, voice a little tense. He had that same nervous energy he got when he was at his drumkit.

“I think I would know if he was a queen, wouldn’t I?” Jean said with a laugh.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Jeannie,” Summers said.

“Alright, enough potshots,” Candy said, “Where can we set all this down?” Any suspicion Logan had that Worthington and Jean were an item was shot by the possessive way Worthington draped his arms around her, taking one of the bags from her arms and claiming her mouth in an all too passionate kiss.

They took over the studio’s breakroom, Drake and McCoy and their girlfriends claiming the table as theirs, chatting animatedly. McCoy rolled a couple joints, his fingers nimble from practice, and he passed them out with the magnanimous air of a king. The tension Drake had held seemed to drain out of him, replaced by an excessive chattiness- though maybe it hadn’t drained so much out of him, as into everyone else. Worthington was clearly loath to leave Jean and Summers, sitting on one of the two arm chairs across from a couch, Candy sitting in his lap, half-eyeing Jean with a suspicious glare when she wasn’t looking at Worthington with clear adoration.

Summers was pressed up at the end of the sofa, resting his head in his hand. Jean sat sideways next to him, her feet tucked in his lap. She gestured at Logan, patting the seat next to her and scooting closer to Scott. Logan eyed them, feeling a little out of place among these bright young things, but he came over none the less. He sat at the edge of the couch, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, trying to keep from pressing his back against the cushion.

“So what did you think?” she asked.

“Sounded great,” Logan admitted. “For that ballad-“

“Hour of Darkness?”

“Yeah. We’ll need to use an anti-pop filter on the microphone to keep it clean.”

Summers made a derisive noise, and Logan shot him a glare. Jean smacked him with the back of her hand.

“Are you sure? I thought it sounded more grounded without it,” she said.

“I’ll play it back to you after we do a take with it, but I don’t think you want it too grounded. It needs to float, like it’s effortless.”

Jean hummed thoughtfully, and Logan caught her pensive glance to Scott. The younger man was fiddling with the strap of her sandal, avoiding eye contact with them, but he tilted his head.

“We’ll think about it,” she said, “Let’s wait to hear it in recording- we’ve got time. Now, the most important thing- contracts.”

“I work for day rate,” Logan said, “No contract, no signatures, you credit me by first name or not at all.”

“Day rate?” Worthington piped up, incredulous.

“You got a problem with that?” Logan said.

“You do realize that our previous producer got a three percent cut of the album sales. And you _do_ realize how many fucking albums we sell?”

“I work for day rate,” Logan repeated, firmly. Worthington shook his head in disbelief, and turned his attention back to his girlfriend.

“How much?” Jean asked. Logan set aside her good looks and quoted her a number- a high one, more than twice his usual. Worthington made another disbelieving sort of noise, but Summers hardly reacted at all, turning to glance at Jean, taking in her reaction- a half-disbelieving laugh- before shrugging and turning his attention away. It wasn’t as if the band couldn’t afford it, Logan thought. They shook on it. Logan got up, went over to McCoy and gestured for him to share the joint he was smoking, glad for a bench to sit on without having to worry about hurting himself.

“So what do you think of the twins?” McCoy asked in a sardonic undertone, tilting his head towards Scott and Jean.

“Thought they were dating?” Logan asked.

“Well, they’re _together_ ,” McCoy drawled. “Oh god, you should’ve seen them back when they were kids- the truly endless will they-won’t they, the painfully obvious pining.”

“Oh, Scotty’s just so _sweet_ , but he could _never_ love me back, and _I’m_ Cyclops Summers and I’m _allergic_ to _feelings_ -“ Drake pantomimed in a loud falsetto.

“Shut up you!” Jean called, laughing, though Logan noticed a cringe pass over Summers face at Drake’s nickname. Jean leaned in, kissing the cringe off his face, smiling warmly at the other man, her hand trailing through his shaggy hair.

“Cute couple,” Logan said dryly, watching them. He took a hit off the joint and turned back to McCoy. “Funny how someone so damn quiet can be so bossy.”

McCoy laughed, his eyes edgy. “Yes, well, Bobby might be our youngest, but Scott is the Benjamin of our bunch.”

“ _Was_ the Benjamin,” Drake said, sadly.

“He still is,” Vera said, “Look at the way you all treat him.”

“The beloved son,” McCoy said thoughtfully, then looked back to Logan, “Or the imperious little brother, you might say.”

Whatever, Logan thought, taking another hit. It was only a month’s work to him, he decided. Summers seemed like a weird guy, but the constant digs were the real drag. The idea of listening to them for a month drained some of the enthusiasm Logan had managed to muster for the project. Worthington clearly had a diva streak, but McCoy, for all his above-this aloofness, clearly resented Summers’ gravitational pull on the group just as much. Was it too much to just do some clean, simple, professional work? Logan thought, before realizing, yeah, it absolutely was. These were rock stars after all, he thought sarcastically. He passed the joint back to McCoy, giving him a wan smile, glancing back at Jean and Summers on the couch, pressed head to head, whispering quietly to each other.

Summers was a lucky bastard, to have locked down a woman like Jean. The son of a bitch had better appreciate her. As if feeling Logan’s envious gaze, Summers turned, meeting his eyes through his shades. The buzz was beginning to set in, and Summers face seemed to shift, as if a halo had settled over him. Logan remembered the chapel at the residential school he’d been sent to as a kid- stained glass of some fucked up virgin martyr, tied to a stake and set alight. That once impassive face now seemed to burn with determination- try me motherfucker, I can take it, it seemed to say. Logan wondered what Summers made of him, felt himself being drawn in by that inexplicable magnetism- he suddenly couldn’t wait for Monday to come. He itched to start recording, to show the younger man what he could do. Summers was a professional, if he was nothing else, Logan thought. He wondered why he put up with the digs- was he staying for Jean, or something else?

A firm tap on his shoulder broke Logan out of the trance- McCoy offered the joint back to him. Logan looked back to Scott, who had dropped his gaze, tracing his fingers on Jean’s ankle. He waved off the offer of a second hit.

“I’ve got to drive,” he said, “Rather do it with a clear head.”

“Suit yourself,” McCoy said- he glanced back towards the couch, then back to Logan. Logan kept his expression neutral, betraying nothing. After about a last fifteen minutes of conversation, he stood up, making for the door, giving a wave as he went.

“Wait!” Jean called as he headed into the hallway, following him. She grabbed for his shoulder and he flinched a way, smoothing a smile on his face to show no hard feelings.

“What’s up darlin’?” he asked. She brushed her hair out of her face, and handed him a cassette.

“The demo for this album,” she said, “In case you want to listen to it.” He nodded, and tucked it in his jacket pocket.

“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll see you Monday.” She beamed.

“Looking forward to working with you!” she said. He couldn’t help the spring in his step as he headed for where he’d parked his motorcycle. He wondered how Ororo had found her- he’d have to ask next time he saw her.

The world was blurry around the edges, the twilight sky and yellowy street lights making everything mellow and dreamlike. He felt young, light, Jean’s trust leaving him feeling more unburdened than he’d felt since- shit, he wasn’t sure when. Maybe the fifties, he thought, and for a moment he was twenty five again, on a night ride, his brother on a bike just beside him, the war behind them and the future in from of them. Fuck the drama, he decided, remembering another snatch of a Children of the Atom song- “Peace and love, peace and love, everybody’s looking for peace and love.” He’d believed that, as a kid himself. If Summers made him want to show what he was capable for, he wanted to believe again for Jean. It was about time for some good honest work, Logan thought, and he rounded the corner towards home.


	2. The Angels Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my amazing, indefatigable beta reader [OberonsEarring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring) and to everyone who left kudos or comments on chapter one!

Logan made it back to his apartment, brushing away a fly as he clambered up the outdoor staircase to the second floor, the lights humming overhead. There was a brown wrapped package on his front step. He snorted to himself, picking it up- thin and square, clearly an album, and definitely from Ororo. Stepping into the apartment, he kicked the door shut and, thinking of ‘Ro, guiltily put the phone back on the hook. He opened the package- it was Children of the Atom’s debut album. Of fucking course, he thought, wondering if this was meant to “seal the deal” or make fun of him for his lack of knowledge of the band. He looked over the track listings on the back of the album, and noticed the publication date at the bottom- 1961. He hadn’t been listening to many albums that year, the fear and chaos of that time rising up in his memories before he tamped them down again. He mentally cursed his stupid, impulsive older brother, and pulled the record out of its sleeve, throwing it on the stereo.

 _There_ was the four chord yeah-yeah-yeah nonsense he vaguely remembered. He grabbed a beer from his fridge, and smirked. Imagining full-of-himself Worthington wagging his head in time to the beat, or McCoy, who took himself so seriously, lending his bass voice to the “bow wow wows”- he had to laugh. Taking a closer look at the song listings, he was a little surprised they were all credited to Xavier/Summers, given the guy must’ve been just a teen.

Logan flipped the album cover around- the front featured Jean in a green mini dress, all of seventeen, flanked on either side by boys in matching yellow boiler suits, arms crossed over their chests. Summers and Worthington stood next to her. Summers was immediately identifiable by his red shades and grim expression, while Worthington subtly tilted towards Jean, smiling as if he’d been caught laughing. Hank McCoy looked very different, and not just because his hair was six inches shorter than it was now. His features were softer, less coarse- and speaking of soft features, Drake looked criminally young. If he was a day over sixteen, Logan would eat his hat. The boy in the photo lacked the almost manic edge the drummer had possessed in the studio today. Logan wondered if it was fame or grief that had taken the innocence from his face.

Having heard their most recent songs, it was interesting to hear the seeds of them in this first album. There was more going on musically than he had given credit for when he’d first heard them at the start of the decade, even if the lyrics were painfully earnest. The A side of the album finished at the same time as his beer. The demo tape was still in his pocket, and he remembered Jean’s voice from that afternoon- her sincerity, the brightness of her eyes as she talked through songs with him. He remembered the warm dreamlike feeling he’d had on his night ride, and already craved another taste of it. His stereo had a built in cassette deck, and he put it in, switching the playback on his speakers.

It was a home recording, the tape starting with a slight hiss, then piano. He frowned a little as whoever was playing went up and down a scale, before settling into a soft chord progression- no one in the band was a keyboardist, as far as he had seen. The melody started- the ballad, in its original D key, played soft and slow. He startled a little when a male voice began singing. The voice was- alright, but a little nasal and forced, clearly singing in the upper-most end of his range to mimic Jean’s voice.

“And in my hour of darkness, when I’m all alone, only you can find me darling, you’re the only one,” the voice sang, and it suddenly clicked- this was Scott Summers. “When the clouds have gathered, and I’m cold to my bones, only you can warm me darling, your love brings the sun.”

Logan stood, going to pour himself a finger of whiskey. He remembered Drake’s joke- that Summers was allergic to emotion. He listened to Summers, hearing the ache of longing and devotion, imagined the band listening to it over again as they worked out how to do it as a five piece, and wondered if all that drumming had left Drake deaf.

The ballad hadn’t worked in rehearsal- not on the first take, and even by the time they had stopped messing with it, no one was really happy with it, just leaving the hashing out for recording. But on the tape, even with the echoing hiss of a home recording, even with Summers’ voice out of its natural range, it was beautiful. Logan thought back on Summers’ mouth, a thin unhappy line, listening passively as his bandmates worked on his song. He should’ve fought for it, Logan thought. The song could’ve worked, if Summers had been willing to speak up and set out how he wanted it done.

Logan felt an odd mix of admiration and irritation growing. Summers was clearly a talented musician, with a great sense for melody- so why the hell was he sulking in the back of the rhythm section? The next song after Hour of Darkness was an odd little number, Can’t Lose Myself, that switched between waltz and rock, that Worthington had vocally protested several times as a “trite set piece.” The lyrics were all pseudo-psychological free association nonsense, and Logan wondered at “the Professor’s” influence.

“Take it all, take my face, take my name,” Summers sang, slow and steady, playing steady triplets, but made the change out of waltz time into boogie-woogie blues chords with an easy competence, voice howling, “I can’t lose myself! I can’t lose myself- no no- I can’t! Lose! Myself!”

Jean had sung it beautifully in rehearsal, clear and hopeful, full of certainty, and utterly different than Summers. The man clearly had a voice, he just refused to use it. Even with the digs the others made at him, Logan couldn’t begin to understand why Summers was so quiet in session, given how much influence he had on the songwriting itself. That was always the struggle with bands- the fight between a single vision and artistic collaboration- but Logan didn’t think Scott so much believed in the collaborative process as he had surrendered to it.

“Very good Scott,” a warm, Transatlantic voice purred on the tape, startling Logan out of his thoughts. It was very clear on the tape, as close to the microphone as Summers- as if the speaker was sitting side by side with the younger man. “I liked that much better. Now-“ there was a click, and the voice was interrupted by the next set of piano chords. Logan mentally transposed them to guitar and recognized “Every Path of Life”, the ballad the band had ended rehearsal with. Then he realized- that voice had been Xavier. The band’s manager, producer, financier- and Summers’ writing partner.

“Every Path of Life” was a sweet song- when Jean had sung it, Logan had begun to realize she and Summers were an item, the way she would gaze at him during the chorus, a gentle smile playing across her face. “Everywhere I try to run, whatever turns I take, every path returns to you, every choice I make,” Summers sang- his forced contralto still clear, but suddenly more boyish than effeminate. He’d started writing with Xavier when he was just a kid- or rather, Xavier had started writing for _him_. The beloved son, McCoy had called him.

The song stopped, a few hissed seconds of silence. Xavier’s voice spoke again, but Logan turned off his stereo after the first few syllables. He didn’t need to hear the man- didn’t want to. What he wanted was the feeling Jean had left him with- a lightness, like a second chance. What he felt now was heaviness- he had quite enough baggage of his own without the possessiveness dripping from even a few seconds of Xavier’s voice.

Logan grabbed his keys, but his hands fumbled, his eyes unfocused as the world spun for a minute at the sudden movement. Goddamnit, Logan thought. All he wanted was to cruise- and he snorted at his own pun, running his palm over his eyes, grinding the heel of his hand into the socket. It was probably for the best, he thought. Cruising never went well for him- he was short, and hairy, and colored, and he didn’t take his fucking shirt off or get on his back for anyone. He eyed his watch- it was before midnight. Herc probably hadn’t gone out yet, and he was always a sure thing.

He called him up, kicking his boots off. Herc picked up on the fifth ring, and they didn’t need to exchange too many words. Logan fixed himself another drink, listening to a new country-western album he’d picked up the previous day, by a kid called James Taylor, while waiting for him to make his way up from Echo Park. There was a knock at the door, and Logan opened it- he pulled the taller man down into a kiss, opened mouth and hot. Herc kicked the door shut, reaching down to pick Logan up, experienced hands braced under Logan’s thighs and not on his back, and then there wasn’t much need for many words at all.

Logan wasn’t queer, but maybe there was something queer about the way he loved kissing men- loved kissing Herc especially. Herc’s mustache tickled his face, sensitizing the skin all the more, and Logan caressed Herc’s beard, up through his sideburns into his long, thick hair. Herc was a great kisser- responsive and sensual, and undeniably masculine. How had he ever done this as a joke? Logan wondered- how could anyone ignore how undeniably intoxicating it was to have another man in your thrall- or to feel yourself swaying under his touch. He’d known Herc for years, and had never known anyone like him- as powerful and thrilling and so willing to let Logan spread him out and make him shake.

Later- but now so much later- Logan woke up from his post-sex sleep to Jean’s voice- all impossibly young and yeah-yeah-yeah. He groaned, pushing himself up- he blinked against the light as he stepped out of his bedroom, checking his watch.

“You fucker, you couldn’t even let me sleep half an hour?” Logan complained.

“You’re old and boring,” Herc teased, not nearly young enough to get away with that, “I had to find some way to amuse myself.”

“It’s normal to sleep after good sex, you’re just inhuman.” Herc laughed, and Logan flushed a little. “Oh don’t be so easily flattered,” he grumbled again, but he couldn’t stay mad.

“Put some pants on, you know I find you ridiculous when you shirt-cock,” Herc said, waving at Logan’s state of half-dress. Logan glance down, and stretched, giving Herc a better view of his cock if he wanted one, his undershirt riding up.

“In my own home you give me this shit?” Logan asked, coming up behind the still naked Herc, running his hand down the strong column of his spine, appreciating the way the taller man shivered. No, this didn’t make him feel the way Jean did, Logan thought, hearing her voice on the album- but like this, for a moment, it was easy not to mind.

“Did you pick this up in a blind box or something?” Herc teased, “I didn’t think you had good taste.”

“You like them?” Logan said surprised.

“Warren’s a hunk,” Herc said, “And Henry- it’s not often I see a man taller than me, especially one who’s properly built, and not a skinny little beanpole!”

“They’re assholes,” Logan said, resting his middle finger on Herc’s tailbone, fanning out his fingers, trying to rest his pointer and pinky on the dimples above his ass, enjoying the way Herc tried to ignore him. “Put on something we could fuck to, at least.”

“Oh you can’t fuck to ‘baby baby oh?’” Herc said leaning back into Logan’s touch, “And don’t call them assholes, they seem like darlings and you don’t even know them.”

Logan wasn’t sure what sound he made, but it had Herc spinning around.

“You _know_ them?” Herc asked, eyes alit.

“Don’t act so starstruck, for godsake, what sort of Angeleno are you?” Logan grumbled.

“I’m Greek, and I’ve been jerking it to their fan magazines since before I knew you,” Herc teased, “Come on Logan, don’t lead me on like this- how close did you get to them? When was this?”

“I don’t talk about my fucking work-“

“You’re _working_ with them?” Herc said excitedly. Logan glared at him. He was tempted to say something waspish, but Herc had a way of twisting any nastiness into an excuse to call Logan a “bitchy little queen”, and then Logan would _have_ to fight him, effectively killing any hope of a round two.

“You probably know more than I do,” Logan said, “Jeannie’s sweet, Drake’s a nut, Summers acts like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Worthington and McCoy are aggressively heterosexual, and the whole lot of them are fucked up and sad.”

“There’s been so much gossip I need to ask you about,” Herc said, his delight making him look young. “Is Summers actually a deaf-mute?”

“A- where the hell do you get this shit?”

“I don’t think the boy’s ever spoken in public!” Herc laughed, “I’ve been a fan since this album came out and everything I’ve heard is that he’s some sort of idiot savant who was rotting in the back ward of a state hospital till Charles Xavier found him.”

“Jesus,” Logan said, pinching his nose. “He’s not a fucking deaf-mute, that’s for certain.” That was certainly a lie, or a grossly exaggerated rumor- but he couldn’t help but wonder how much truth there was to the rest of Herc’s words. “And he doesn’t have to talk very much to act too good to speak to me.”

Herc laughed, “Logan, only you could pick a fight with _Shy Scott Summers_.”

“Oh, is that what you call him?” Logan asked aggressively, leaning into Herc’s personal space. He’d called up Herc specifically so he wouldn’t have to think about Summers- or the band in general, for that matter. Herc and he had been lovers off and on for the past five years- Logan knew his body well enough to know how to thoroughly distract him- and distract himself while he was at it.

The next morning, after Herc had headed home, Logan cleaned himself up, gently peeling off his shirt and letting the patchy scars on his back air dry after carefully cleaning them while alone. He spent Sunday wrapping up a few loose ends in his personal life, making sure he could focus on Jean’s album for the next month without any crises popping up. He rode his bike over to Village early on Monday. He stopped into the break room to make a pot of coffee, and was surprised to see someone curled up on the couch, sleeping- even more surprised when he recognized it was Summers.

The younger man was balled up tight on the sofa, back to Logan, his navy sweater draped over his shoulders and head like a blanket. He tensed as Logan walked by, but didn’t uncurl.

“Want coffee?” Logan asked loudly, pouring grounds into the machine. There was a pause, then rustling on the couch.

“Okay,” Summers replied. Logan looked over his shoulder- Summers was adjusting his glasses, his hair tangled and wild. The coffee maker bubbled quietly as it brewed. Summers walked over, quiet in mismatched socks, standing behind Logan and watching the machine in silence.

“You slept here?”

“Yeah,” Summers answered. He did not elaborate. He smelled musky- not unpleasant, and not like he’d been drinking, but he clearly hadn’t showered in a day or two. His whiskers were sparse, a sad little scrap of beard- like a kid’s. Logan twitched a little- Summers was standing just a little too close. The percolator hissed and bubbled, the only sound that passed for a painfully long seven minutes. Logan felt Saturday’s irritation with Summers’ silence start to rise up in him. He poured himself a mug of coffee, stepping aside for Summers to do the same.

“I listened to your demo the other night,” Logan said, deciding to break the silence. Summers flinched, nearly splashing himself with coffee. “More of a prototype then a demo, but a good tape,” Logan offered. Summers glanced sideways at him- he looked tired, older than his years.

“What do you have to set up for the recording session?” Summers asked. The implicit dismissal stung, and Logan felt his hackles rise. Right, the hired hand’s opinion was not wanted.

Logan took his coffee and left, heading for Studio A. He walked through the control room into the studio proper. He set about positioning the microphones in front of the amps, checking the wiring and connections. Summers followed right behind him- hadn’t even stopped to pull on his shoes, for god’s sake. Logan looked over his shoulder, trying to hide his irritation.

“Where’s your bass?” he asked. If Summers insisted on shadowing him, he could at least help with sound check. Summers looked down, a wave of misery crossing his features.

“Jean’s place,” he said. Logan didn’t miss the choice of words.

“I don’t know much about women,” Logan said, standing to his full height and stretching carefully, “But you don’t want to bring this kind of shit into the start of a recording session.” Summers hummed noncommittally, watching Logan, following him back into the control room as he checked the channel settings and the magnetic tape.

“Do you know much about men?” Summers asked suddenly.

Logan whipped his head around. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Summers looked back at him guilelessly. Logan felt a wrenching fear in his gut when he recalled the connections between Scott and Jean and Ororo and him- he’d never talked about _that part_ of his life in so many words with ‘Ro- but he felt his heart race and blood boil with the thought of what she might’ve known- or might’ve said to others. Before Logan could interrogate Summers further, the door to Studio A swung open, and Bobby Drake appeared, holding Summers’ bass.

“Heeeey Scotty,” Drake said, passing the guitar case to Summers. “So, uh, Zee and I were hanging with Angel and Candy at his place last night when Jean came over…”

Summers made a short hum, and turned to go back into the recording room, but Bobby caught his arm. He flinched a little at the grip, but looked through his floppy bangs, his face stern and unyielding at the younger man.

“No, you don’t understand,” Drake said, “Jeannie is capital-P pissed at you, and like- the things she was saying-“ Drake glanced at Logan, and changed his grip on Summers’s arm, pushing him into the studio. Summers wrenched his arm out of Drake’s grip as they reached Summers’ usual spot, and he set his case down on the ground, crouching over to click it open. Drake shifted nervously beside him,

“Scott,” Drake said. Logan arched an eyebrow, realizing the microphones in the room were hot, and just barely picking up Drake’s hushed voice. “Jean was saying- she said she heard you- like, she said you went to an, uh, s-sex… therapist…?”

“That’s not true,” Summers said abruptly.

“Oh,” Drake said. Summers plugged in his bass, the channel humming with feedback for a second, obscuring their conversation further, “-she lying?”

Summers didn’t say anything, adjusting the tuning.

“Scott?” Drake asked. “I know I sometimes give you a hard time, but you know, if you ever- wanted to- I wouldn’t make fun of you for being-“ Drake glanced up at the sound booth window and Logan quickly dropped his gaze.

Fortunately- or unfortunately- McCoy came in just then, carrying his guitar over his shoulder.

“Good morning, Logan,” he said cheerfully, then looked through the glass into the recording studio, his bright demeanor dimming a little. “I think Scott is wearing the same clothes I last saw him in,” he said, worried. “Do you know-“

“He and Jeannie broke up, seems like,” Logan said curtly. McCoy looked alarmed.

“The day before we start recording, they do this?” McCoy exclaimed. “Of all the stupid, selfish things...” he stormed through the door yelling, “Scott Summers, what have you done!?”

“Jean said she heard Scott talking about-“ Logan glanced up, just in time to see Drake drop his hands, as if he’d just made a gesture- an obscene one, by the disgusted curl of McCoy’s lips.

“ _Really_?” McCoy asked.

“I went to the psychologist you recommended,” Summers muttered, the microphone just barely picking him up.

“Don’t put this on me,” McCoy said testily, “I referred you to Dr. Frost for _trauma_ , not for-”

“I’m not going to talk about this at work,” Summers interrupted.

“This isn’t work, and you are not my boss Scott, we are artistic collaborators and if we need to clear the air-“ McCoy was cut off as Summers began to play scales, very purposefully ignoring him. McCoy huffed, stomping over to his station- no small thing, given his size- and very dramatically began to take his guitar out of its case, slinging it across his shoulder and plugging it in. He leaned over to the standing mic nearby. “You know, Jung once said that women are the souls of men, and that when we are out of touch with those qualities, what are we but _soulless automatons_.”

Drake looked alarmed- Summers gave no visible reaction. Logan sent up a silent prayer to whatever God might exist that Jean and Worthington got there sooner rather than later, and that they could just get started and get this over with.

His prayer was answered a few minutes before 10- Worthington pushing the door open, his arm around Jean’s shoulder. She looked shaken, and like she hadn’t slept very well, deep bags under her red rimmed eyes. She saw Summers playing, and looked at Logan, as he stood up from his chair.

He approached her, watched the way her breath caught in her throat. She was working hard to find words, to stay calm. Logan hated to see a woman cry, and wished there was more he could do for her. He wished that McCoy was less of an intellectual- he wanted someone to knock some sense into Summers, make him see he had to make things right with Jean- for her sake, if nothing else.

His gaze was drawn away from Jean by Worthington, puffing up defensively by her side- his arm around her shoulder tightening protectively.

“What’s Cyke been saying?” the blond man asked.

“Not much,” Logan replied testily, not sure he appreciated Worthingon’s tone. Worthington snorted derisively, tossing his hair.

“Oh, there’s so much he ‘won’t talk about’, but you wouldn’t believe the things he will talk about with some stranger he doesn’t even know-“

“Look, your personal lives aren’t my business, okay, I’m here to help with your music,” Logan interrupted, seeing the way Worthington’s words were upsetting Jean. Jean rushed forward, hugging him. Logan hissed and brought his hands down to her arms, but didn’t push her away just yet. Ignoring the sharp, burning pain where her arms squeezed his back, he gingerly brought his arms around and rubbed her back in return.

“I really appreciate the help,” she said, voice quavering. “You don’t know how much this album was supposed to mean to the Professor- and to me.”

“C’mon darlin’,” Logan said, patting her back and leaning away. Jean pulled back, rubbing her eyes and adjusting her hair a little. “You’re going to get through this.” She nodded, and paused for just a minute, as if waiting for him to say more, before going into the recording studio, purposefully ignoring the others as she took her place, before looking up and staring directly at Scott. Scott looked up from his chords, staring back at her. The tension rose to nearly unbearable levels as Warren settled beside Jean, plugging in his guitar and tuning it, falling silent like the rest of the band as they waited for someone to break the tension.

Logan made eye contact with Jean, and leaned forward, flipping on the intercom. “Okay, ‘You and I’ take one, whenever you guys are ready.”

Thankfully, Logan didn’t have to count them off- but maybe he should’ve. Summers counted them off, and Logan could already tell this was going to be a disaster, because everyone started a beat after he and Drake had started. Technically, an easy enough fix on his end, but a horrible fucking omen.

The sweetness of the song from the day before had been drained. Jean was angry, her mouth curling with it, every word twisting on its way out.

“You and I, before we meet, the road unwinding ‘neath our feet,” she sang, “You and I, together alone, you _really_ think we could go home?”

Worthington was right there with her, mixing up the riff with drop chords that added to the aggressive edge. The melody was driving the rhythm, and by the end of the first verse Drake had been drawn into their vibe, accenting the beat more heavily on the snare. Two minutes later and the sweet little song had turned totally bitter, ending with a final crash. Logan flicked off the recording, almost impressed with how totally Jean had managed to change the song, without seeming to discuss it with the others at all.

“Jean,” Summers said.

“ _What_ Scott?” Jean asked, whirling to face him.

“It’s not an angry song, Jean.”

“Maybe it is! Maybe it has to be an angry song now!”

“Please don’t take it out on the music Jean,” Summers said. “He wouldn’t want this.”

At that, Jean’s face fell, her fair skin flushing bright red.

“I can’t do this,” she said, pulling off her headphones and dropping them to the floor, rushing through the door into the booth, past Logan and out into the hallway. Logan followed her out- she was leaning against the door frame, face buried in her hands. She peeked out from behind her fingers. Logan wasn’t too sure what he thought he was going to do- he was a piss-poor source of comfort. He pulled his cigar out of his mouth, offered it to her. “I really shouldn’t,” she said, her voice a little wet and choked, “Still have a full day of singing ahead of me.” She took the cigar anyways, puffing on it easily. Her lips pursed, trying to blow a ring, smiling wanly at the cloud she had created instead.

“I told Summers this morning- I don’t know much about this sort of thing,” Logan said.

“He really didn’t say anything to you?” she asked. He shook his head. Jean looked off down the hall again, troubled.

“For months- when I met him- he wouldn’t talk to anyone.” she said, “Then there were months where would only talk to the Professor and I. I was supposed to be _his person_. Anything he’s ever said to anyone, he’s said to _me_ \- but the things he said to this- this _Frost woman_ \- they were disgusting,” she said, her voice breaking, “I never even knew Scott was capable of thinking like that, and he- he was just describing these sick things to this- this-“

“Hey, c’mon now,” Logan hushed. He grabbed her shoulder, exposed by her green halter top, squeezing it. “So he was man, underneath it all-“

“These aren’t ‘men’s fantasies’,” she interrupted, “I’m not naïve, Logan- these were _disturbed_.” Logan was at a loss for words. They said it was always the quiet ones, so maybe it shouldn’t be a surprised, but he couldn’t imagine the straight-laced Summers as capable of causing the sort of distress Jean was feeling. He wasn’t sure how to comfort her.

“That last take worked,” he offered, “Don’t let Summers tell you otherwise.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, taking another draw off the cigar. “It’s not exactly ‘our sound’.”

“Inauthentic sound is just noise,” Logan said. “It sounded like you were singing from your guts.”

“Thanks Logan,” she said. She was smiling, even if her eyes were still a little glassy, and she passed the cigar back to him. She gave a heavy exhalation, brave face back on. “Alright!” she said, “Ready for take two?”

They wound up doing another six takes of ‘You and I’ before taking a break to let Jean rest her voice. A couple of the takes were just due to fuck ups and flat notes, and were recorded over in short order, but the good ones- they got a range of sound and emotion out of the song. The tension in the room didn’t abate. Logan tried to focus on technical thoughts, but his gaze kept rising up to Summers, sitting alone on a stool in the recording room, everyone else having left for the break room.

“Hey Summers, can you take a listen to this?” he said into the mic. Summers looked up at him, lifting his bass off his shoulders like it was the weight of the world, setting it in the stand beside him and trudging in. He already looked defeated. “Here,” Logan said, when Summers took a seat next to him. “I haven’t tweaked the tempo and pitch with Varispeed yet but this is the first take,” he said, pressing play. As the song wound past the second chorus, Logan said, “And here’s the fifth,” switching tracks.

“Play it again?” Summers asked. Logan rewound the tapes, and Scott listened closely.

“That could work,” Summers said, “The heavier percussion works at the end. But… it really is supposed to be a happy song.”

“Yeah, well, that’s on you, bub,” Logan said. Summers looked away.

“She doesn’t listen to me,” he whispered.

“Well, tell her what she wants to hear,” Logan said, trying to hide his irritation, “But if you want her, you need to make this right.” There was a long silence.

“You never answered my question,” Summers said, turning his gaze back to Logan.

“What?”

“This morning.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Logan asked scowling. That same defiant stare from the other day was back on Summers face. The younger man leaned in, getting in Logan’s personal space.

“Do you want to know why Jean is mad?”

Logan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Summers was too damn close.

“I can fucking guess,” he said through gritted teeth. He resisted the urge to shove the bassist away. He stood up, turning toward the soundboard, “Now if your just gonna play coy instead of-“

“I killed a man.”

Logan looked back over his shoulder and stared at the younger man- at his flat, impassive face, the jut of his jaw. He believed him.

“So have I,” Logan said, “But that’s not why Jean is angry.”

Summers looked away, his long bangs hiding his face. Logan did the math- there was no way that could’ve happened after the band got famous, and they got famous fast when Summers was young. He couldn’t have been more than a kid- and there was a short list of reasons why kids killed.

“What-“

“No one likes personal questions,” Summer interrupted. Summers was worse than the old pipes in his building with this hot-cold bullshit, Logan thought, but snorted.

“Yeah, well, your girlfriend _is_ your personal life, and when she’s also the lead singer of your band-“ Summers turned away, and Logan reached out, grabbing Summer’s wrist. The taller man wrenched it out of Logan’s grip, flinching back. They stared at each other for a minute. Fine, Logan thought in frustration, raising his hands in surrender. Summers backed away, and went back to the studio, wrapping the strap of his bass around him the way a child would their safety blanket.

Things were even worse when they came back from their break- Worthington pulled a veto and flatly refused to play the wonky-waltz “Can’t Lose Myself”. They tried to play “Be Who You Are”, a groovy little number without any deeper meanings to trigger any resentful feelings, but Worthington was actively resisting fitting into the steady beat laid down by Summers, sending everything off kilter. He stood close to Jean, watching her- and there was genuine affection in his eyes, an unselfish desire to protect her, to avenge whatever wrong he thought Summers had done her- but goddamn if it wasn’t the most annoying shit in the world when it came to just getting a half decent take down.

“Hour of Darkness?” Summers suggested- a good suggestion, Logan thought, since it had an extended guitar solo likely to appease Worthington, but would that _anyone_ but Scott had suggested it. Logan could see Worthington puff up, as if to argue, but Jean reached out, the back of her hand tapping his, her pinky hooking around his ring finger.

“Fine,” Worthington said with a huff, and counted them off, “One two three four, one two three-“

They dove in, and now it was Jean being the problem- rather than her anger changing the song, it just fell flat. Whatever righteous indignation she had felt that morning had been exhausted by the mornings work, and now the lyrics, rather than the longing and devotion meant to be in them, were filled with… nothing. It sounded hollow, like a half-drunk bar singer at the end of the night. There was shit Logan could fix- pitch and tempo, he could strengthen vocals or lend depth to tone. But he couldn’t add soul. Logan looked through the window into the studio, at the band as they played- at Summers staring at Jean, and the way Jean wouldn’t look back. Two and a half minutes passed, and the mediocre take wrapped.

“Summers and Worthington, can you two switch positions?” Logan said into the intercom. Summers quietly started to unplug his bass from the amp, but Worthington looked up, scowling at the booth. “Just trying something for the next take, don’t take it personally.” Worthington huffed, dramatically tossing his amp connector to the ground and taking the long way around the studio to avoid directly crossing paths with Summers. Summers padded across the room, bare feet silent on the carpet, and stood next to Jean. He leaned down to pick up the amp connector and plugged in, playing a few notes to test the feedback. Logan adjusted the recording settings on his end, and leaned into the mic again.

“Summers, you’re going to sing back up to Jean this take,” Logan directed. Everyone looked up at that.

“Uh, Scott doesn’t sing,” Drake said, leaning down so a mic picked him up.

“I’ve fucking heard him sing,” Logan said, adjusting the channels for Worthington and Summers’ feeds.

“I mean-“

“It’s fine Bobby,” Summers said quietly. “How do you want to do this?” he asked, looking at Jean.

“Like Warren, I suppose,” Jean said. Summers hummed, picking out the bass line of the chorus. “Cause it was you, it was you, it was al-ways you- to light the fire deep inside my bones,” Jean started, her voice still hollow.

“It was you, it was you, it was al-ways you-“ Summers joined her on the second repetition- but totally failed to harmonize, his voice cracking, falling completely flat on the notes. God fucking damnit- Logan thought- that’s what he got for trying to help. “I’m used to singing in your voice,” Summers said. He had previously seemed- not stupid, but _dull_ \- the sarcastic, knowing tone to his voice was surprising, and given the uncertain moue of Jean’s mouth, she wasn’t sure what to make of it either. Summers turned away from her, humming to himself, feeling out his range. After a moment, he quieted, looking at Jean expectantly.

“Fine,” Jean said, “Logan start recording- and a-one, two, three, _four_ -“


End file.
